Nom de Plume
by octavia
Summary: Two murders, two books, two pen names, two FBI agents, and one cocky 14-year-old writer with a mysterious gift...PG-13 for some violence
1. Prologue

A teenage girl sat down at her computer apprehensively, poising her fingers from the keys. Her eyes suddenly glazed over and she began to type rapidly, just staring at the screen the whole time. Quick visions of a murder flashed through her brain…and she said the words she typed as images, horrible images, flashed through her mind…

"She strummed her harp slowly, her mind had wandering to the strange man at the back of the audience at her last concert. Why had he given her that evil stare? Why did he look like he hated every bone in her body, every perfect note that she played?

"A crash from upstairs snapped Cassia out of her subconscious thinking. Rising from her chair, she began to cross the burgundy-carpeted room toward the stairs. As she gingerly put one foot on the first step, Cassia went cold, like all the windows were open in the dead of winter. Chills reverberated up and down her spine. She climbed three more steps before she heard the being behind her.

"Before she could turn, she was pinned to the floor, strong arms holding her in place.

"'Well, Cassia,' a deep voice full of hatred sneered, 'they've left you alone.' Her terror kept her silent as the voice continued, 'Your harp playing has put me in the poorhouse. My daughter's dancing used to be the greatest performance in this city. Since you've come along with your angel music, we've been livin' on the streets. My Betty, she died of pneumonia. Died! And you shall pay for my loss with your loss.'

"Trembling in fear, Cassia gasped as a shaft of candlelight fell across the man's face as he turned his head and she saw the man from her concert! His ugly face was twisted with hatred and rage, and even in the dim light, she could see in his dark eyes that he despised her more than anything else in the universe.

"'Please sir,'" Cassia begged, 'I am sorry for the death of your daughter. Had I known…'

She was cut off. "Shut your pretty mouth. You are no tree compared to my daughter. She was a lithe, lovely thing. You can just pluck a few strings." The man pulled out a knife and reached over toward her harp. Carefully, he cut through each string, despite Cassia's sobbing.

"Cassia pleaded, wriggling like a worm in a rainstorm, trying to get out of the man's grasp. 

"Her cries was silenced with a horrible, piercing pain as the man drove the knife across her swanlike throat. The pain didn't last long - a few excruciating moments later, Cassia's head lolled to the side and her struggling stopped. Her hazel eyes, their sparkle gone, were open as if in surprise, as was her mouth, a small trickle of blood flowing from it. Cassia's fire had been extinguished."

Despite the horrible images lingering in her mind's eye, the girl smiled faintly. She did not see the white apparition rising from her hands and leaving the room.


	2. Cassia

Cassia. Wasn't that some sort of tree? Mulder picked up the paperback and examined the summary on the back cover.

_"She was a young musician, a beautiful young girl who could make the best harp music in all of New York. Despite the hardships of the four-year war, people were filled with joy when they heard that harp. She was the best of the best…but she made too many enemies that way. _

One of those enemies wanted her dead."

Mulder flipped to the back of the book to read the "About the Author" page. To his surprise, there was a picture of a teenage girl. After reading the profile, he discovered that the author was fourteen and lived in northern Maryland. Her name was Cassandra Gardner.

Walking up to the front counter, Mulder paid $4.95 for the book and left the bookstore. It was late, nearly ten o'clock. Gazing up at the sky (which really wasn't visible due to the light pollution from the city,) he wondered why he felt so drawn to this particular murder mystery, an urge to read it. Shrugging, he got into his car and drove toward his apartment.

Cassia was the best book Mulder ever read. No question. And it had been written by a fourteen-year-old girl living way up in the sticks. She had to be a genius to be able to create that suspense, that shock, that tingling spine feeling just with words on a piece of paper. The book was so _real_, so… lifelike.

As Mulder got into bed, he thought, _A little _too _real._

Scully was typing a case report when Mulder tossed the black paperback onto the desk. She looked up at him with an exhausted questioning look in her eyes—_What now?_

"Best book I ever read, Scully. It was written by a fourteen-year-old."

Interested, Scully picked up the book and looked it over. "And?"

"This Cassandra Gardner must be a genius."

"And?"

"No fourteen-year-old gets that much intelligence naturally."

Setting the book down, Scully groaned. Mulder could take a simple thing and turn it into an X-File. "So what do you have in mind?" she asked hesitantly. She was afraid of what he'd say.

Mulder grinned, obviously pleased with himself. "We give this girl a visit."


	3. Hiding

Loud music blared in the small bedroom. Scully winced at the volume, and she was on the other side of the door. Cassandra's father knocked—well, pounded—on the bedroom door until the music abruptly stopped and small, slender teenager flung open the door. "What now? I'm trying to finish my report, Dad," she complained. Seeing Mulder and Scully, she added, "Oh." She paused and continued, "Are you reporters? It's kind of a bad time."

Mulder pulled out his badge so Cassandra could see it— God, he loved that. As soon as people knew he was a figure of authority, he got a weird adrenaline rush.

"I didn't do it. Whatever you say, I didn't do it."

Scully decided to take it from there. "We're here to talk to you about your book, Cassandra, but not for publicity."

The girl turned to her father with a pleading look. "You've _got_ to start explaining to people that I'm not Cassandra Gardner," she told him in a firm tone. To the agents, she explained, "My real name is Katy Grisham. Cassandra Gardner is my pen name, my nom de plume, my pseudonym, whatever you want to call it. Anyway, come in. Dad, tell Mom I may be late for dinner."

Mulder and Scully entered the teenage girl's room. A computer sat on a wooden desk shoved into a corner, posters covered the walls. Katy saved her file on the computer and shut it down. Pushing clothes off of chairs, she found two places for Mulder and Scully to sit, then sat on her purple-upholstered bed.

"So, what do you want to know?" she asked, pushing some reddish-blonde hair out of her small, oval face.

"Your book Cassia was very intriguing, and I wanted to know how you wrote it," Mulder replied, pressing his fingertips together.

Katy shrugged. "Well, I guess you could say I've always had a talent for writing. I've been trying to get published for the past few years, but without much success. Just a few short stories in magazines. But then, I started getting creative rushes— unfortunately, they don't come when I'm writing a report for history class. I just sit down and type for hours. Sooner or later, a whole book is done. I just get these vivid pictures in my head and I write them down."

"Do you remember typing the stories?" Mulder asked. Scully wondered where this was going.

Katy paused, stared at her bedspread. "No," she finally responded. She furrowed her brow, as if trying to carefully word what she wanted to say. "I—I just go into a trance, I guess." She wouldn't look either agent in the eye as she spoke, just stared at the pattern on her bedspread.

"What about the story itself? Do you know how you came up with it?"

"Well, Cassia was a real person," Katy explained. "I must've read about her somewhere and subconsciously filed that information. I read a newspaper article about it about a month after I finished the book. I have a new book coming out this week, and the same thing happened." She shrugged nonchalantly, as if the gruesome murder wasn't a big deal to write about. With a forced, uncomfortable-sounding laugh, she added, "Having a lot of sugar while searching for inspiration tends to help."

Mulder realized that Katy wasn't going to give away any more information. Something was up; something perfectly legal and completely unrelated to a conspiracy, but there was still something the teenager wanted kept secret.

Standing, Mulder shook Katy's hand and replied, "Thank you, Katy. It was nice meeting you." The two agents left the room, Katy watching them walk down the hallway until they were out of earshot. 

"Cassia," she whispered, "they're going to find out."

Mulder and Scully rode in silence for about ten minutes. Finally, Scully broke it by asking, "So, what's your theory? She's obviously lying about something."

Not turning his eyes from the road, Mulder replied, "She became uncomfortable when we started talking about her inspiration. She can't remember writing the stories, which end up being true, and she goes into a trance. It sounds almost like she's being controlled by someone else."

"She is not an alien, Mulder."

"I wasn't implying that."

"Then what _were_ you implying?"

"I'm not sure yet."


	4. The Final Generation

__

The cat watched the humans pass by and would have smiled if he could have. They were so simple, so innocent compared to his former owners. He felt coddled by the tavern owner, even though he was a rough man. Pirates really were a lot more violent than normal people. The cat took a deep breath and padded back into the tavern. He was getting old; he supposed his pirate days were over.

All things had to come to end, even for someone who had nine lives. 

The short story Katy had written only a year before was nothing like the dark horror of her book. It was about an aging cat pirate, inspired by T.S. Eliot's poem "Cat Morgan Introduces Himself."

Mulder closed the magazine and returned it to its shelf in the library archives. Not only had the story's subject matter contrasted that of Katy's novel, the voice was different. The novel used larger words, old-fashioned language, and imagery unparalleled in anything else Katy had written.

The novel hadn't come from Katy's head. Someone else had written it for her. The question was, who?

Mulder had an idea as to who had written it. Katy's newest book held the answer.

A pale family tree was watermarked on the beige cover, and over that was a picture of an old family photograph, torn down the middle. Until the Final Generation by Nora Harper. A quick flip through the book showed that the main character's name was Lenora. But where did the Harper come from? Filing the thought away for later, Mulder read the back cover. 

__

"The Blakes were a perfect family - wealthy, picturesque, always getting along.

That was just the first impression.

Each Blake made their way in the world by pushing others aside, no matter what the consequence. And one man vowed to have revenge upon their entire dynasty, to the final generation."

Mulder flipped to a random page and read.

_"I vow to have revenge on every member of the Blake family and their children, their children's children, until the final generation, until their dynasty is completely wiped out!"_

As Red Pearson announced his vow, he opened a drawer in his desk. Inside was a handgun, shining black like some sort of deadly snake. The firearm would be his tool.

That simple promise, the premise for the whole book, was a little frightening. Perhaps it was because he knew that this had really happened, or perhaps it was because Katy made the story seem so real. In the Author's Note, Katy wrote:

_The California Blakes were a real family. They lived during the Depression, practically unaffected by it. I could find few police reports on the murders, and Red Pearson was never convicted. He died shortly after his last murder, and it is believed that Red's son, Farley, made the same vow as his father. Six distant relatives of the Blakes were killed over the next half-century. Farley committed suicide before he could be arrested._

As far as we know, the descendants of the Blakes still exist. The final generation has not been wiped out, and won't be - unless a descendant of Red Pearson makes that grisly promise.

"So, did you get your royalty check yet?" Mrs. Grisham asked. 

"Yup. I deposited it this afternoon, before you guys got home."

Mr. and Mrs. Grisham exchanged looks. "Katy," Mr. Grisham began, "you know that your mother and technically 'keep' your money until you're eighteen, correct?"

Katy nodded silently, puzzled.

Mrs. Grisham continued, "Well, to prevent any surprises while you do research for your stories or sign a contract or anything, there's something we need to tell you."

"Yeah?"

"Well, Katy, you're adopted. You're not a Grisham, your birth surname is Bransby. Your parents were murdered when you were just a baby. Planned food poisoning at a party."

Her jaw dropping, Katy let out a bit of a squeak. "Y-you mean I'm not yours?"

Her adoptive parents nodded silently. 

"I-I need to, uh, to think about this and, um, be alone," she stammered, fleeing to her bedroom and shutting the door. She slumped onto her bed, staring at the floor. _ Well, that was sudden. Why didn't they tell me?_ she repeated infinite times. _So I'm a Bransby…why is that name so familiar?_

Jumping up, Katy slid across the hardwoord floor to her computer, logging onto the Internet. She found a family tree website and typed in Bransby, Katalinah Audrey, hitting the Enter key hard.

_One match found,_ the computer read. Scrolling down, Katy found her birthday, birthplace, everything as it should be. She began searching for cousins or siblings, finding none. She backed up through ancestors, particularly those from the first half of the 1900's. She found her paternal great-aunt on the chart, one Paula Bransby. Clicking on the boldface name, Katy scrolled down some more, her eyes madly skimming the list of available references. Marriage records; Katy clicked on it. 

_Let's see…Carl and Paula Bransby married on June 28, 1938_ _St. George's Church in some town in California,_ Katy interpreted from the fuzzy image of a scanned wedding certificate. _What was Paula's maiden name?_ Copying the image, Katy logged off and pasted the image in a graphics program. She magnified the image until she could read the faded type.

_Carl Bransby and Paula Blake. Blake!_

Katy's hand flew to her mouth. "I'm a Blake!" she gasped. "And it looks like _I'm _the final generation."


	5. A Few Denouements

****

Young Musician Murdered in Home

_Cassandra Gardner played the harp like an angel, according to everyone who heard her play. The nineteen-year-old had been performing concerts since she was ten._

Gardner was found dead in her home Thursday night. She was stabbed in the heart, and all the strings on her harp were severed. Gardner had been alone in the house, her family going to the theater while she practiced her music.

Called "Cassia" due to her immense height and slender build, Gardner is believed to have been killed by someone who was jealous of her success as a musician. Police have no suspects at this time.

Mulder read the short article from a 1901 issue of the New York Times on the microfilm machine. He searched every line for a clue, even though there had been no clues when the article had been written. Sighing, he gave up and left the library.

As he drove back to Headquarters, Mulder wondered if Katy Grisham was disturbed by the images she saw. He recalled the scene where Cassia had been murdered and shuddered. The simple words on paper conjured such vivid, violent images. They could not be made up by any normal brain. If Katy really _was_ a medium, which she must be, and received clear images of a spirit's life, then she must be mentally strong.

The pictures that flashed through Mulder's head when he read the book were disturbing to an FBI agent who had seen extremely bizarre things. How disturbing were they to a fourteen-year-old girl living in the farmlands?

"Mulder, where have you been?"

"Researching."

Scully sighed and crossed her arms. "Researching what?"

"Katy Grisham. Cassandra Gardner. I think I've solved the mystery."

"Really." It wasn't a question, it was a statement of Scully's skepticism.

Nodding, Mulder set down the second paperback on the desk. "Yet another pen name. Nora. The main character's name is Lenora. In Cassia, the main character's nickname was Cassia, not her real name. A last name for her was never given. Her real name was probably Cassandra Gardner. Katy used it as her nom de plume because Cassandra Gardner was the real author of the book."

The piercing shriek of the phone destroyed the thick, late-night silence surrounding Mulder has he finished up some paperwork. Scully, still working on that case report, glared at the device in a futile attempt to silence it. Picking it up, Mulder stated his last name as a greeting.

"This is Katy Grisham. Sorry I'm whispering, I don't want my parents to hear me. I was just wondering if you'd happened to read my new book yet." 

"Yes, I did. It was very… thrilling."

"All right, so you know about the whole wiping-out-the-family thing." Katy hesitated. She wasn't sure if she should give the FBI agent the full story. Maybe she could skip the inexplicable side to it. Slowly, planning her words, she began, "I found a document in the California state archives when I went there last summer. The historical society was in the same building. I found a few burned fragments of diary pages in a glass case, a diary belonging to Lenora Blake. Well, my parents just told me that I'm adopted and my real last name is Bransby. My parents were murdered, and further genealogical research showed me that my great-aunt Paula was a Blake. She and her husband supposedly drowned while boating, but I think it was a murder, too. So the reason I'm calling, Mr. Mulder, is that _I'm_ the final generation."

Mulder was stunned into silence. He finally managed to say, "But was it one of the Pearsons who killed your parents?"

"I don't know. It was a woman named Virginia Redmond, but she could've been a descendant. She's serving life in the state prison." Katy was silent, unsure of what to say.

Mulder broke the silence. He had almost all of it figured out. "Katy… where did you get the Harper for Nora Harper? Lenora's last name was Blake."

Surprised, Katy stuttered as she explained, "She was secretly engaged to a man whose last name was Harper. Why?"

"She wrote the book, didn't she?"

Katy's breathing became fast and ragged. He knew…

"Yes. Yes, she did."

"And Cassia's real name was Cassandra Gardner."

"Yes."

"And she wrote her own story."

"Through me. Yes."

"Which is why the images were so vivid in your mind as you wrote, and why the style is unlike yours."

Katy took a deep breath. "Yes." The conversation had turned so quickly, she'd nearly lost track of it. Mulder was quick to figure things out; so should she continue telling him what he'd started to unravel? _Oh sure, why not?_ Katy thought glumly. _I might as well give out information if I need help._ "Something weird happened last night. I heard Nora yelling to me to wake up in my dreams. Usually, when I dream, I don't know that I'm dreaming and can't force myself to wake up. But this time I did, and it was just before a tree branch blew right through my window. We're getting the tail end of a hurricane."

"So is Washington," Mulder replied. 

"Well, anyway, I was typing my homework this afternoon when both Cassandra and Nora started talking through me. They weren't talking to me, but to each other. They were both saying things about this all being each other's fault. Nora was saying that outer Blakes were trash, whatever that means. 'I can't be responsible for something that happened when I was a toddler!' It didn't make much sense. I remember reading about a Blake family feud, distant cousins constantly fighting to be wealthier. I don't know what 'this' refers to, either, what they are blaming each other for."

"Why don't you ask them on your computer, then print the results?" Mulder suggested.

"That's what I was thinking. I'll try tomorrow, after school. My parents have some dinner meeting thing. Thanks, but I've got to go. Bye." 

After hanging up, Mulder turned to Scully, who was standing in front of him with her arms crossed. "Was that the medium?" she asked, an undercurrent of skepticism in her voice.

"Yes, it was. The ghosts were talking to each other through her. Katy is a Blake, the family she wrote about in her book—" Mulder started to explain.

Scully cut him off. "I read both books, Mulder. I don't know about the ghosts, but there's been a murder in California. One Frances Hastings. I believe she was Lenora's sister. The Maryland state archives were broken into last week. Everything but adoption files were left alone. Katy is in great danger." 


	6. Medium

__

Cassandra, Nora, speak to me, please. Explain what's going on. Nora, I'm one of your descendants. Who was Paula Blake Bransby, my great-aunt? Katy typed, praying for an answer. She waited a minute or so with no response.

_My cousin, a few years younger than I. We never really associated with each other. Her family was descended from the younger son of my great-great-grandfather, my family from the elder son. The younger son was gambler and disowned, inferior to the successful elder son. However, the gambler's son was very successful and tried to rejoin the family. He was refused, and there's been a feud ever since. Paula was an "outer Blake," as we called them._

A little voice in Katy's head was telling her that this was working, but Katy did not rejoice. She was in a trance, asking for more information from Cassandra.

_One of Nora's cousins, much elder than her, was very poor. His wife died upon the birth of their daughter, Elizabeth. Betty was lithe, graceful thing. Her father spent every penny he could to get her dancing lessons. She danced in ballets, making lots of money and becoming quite famous throughout New York City. _

As soon as I played my first concert, I_ became the prima donna of the arts in New York City. Without Betty's fame, she didn't bring in as much money. She and her father sold their house, living in the streets. Betty caught pneumonia and died soon after._

I had noticed a hateful man standing at the back of the room at my concerts. He tracked me down and killed me, just like in the book. He was a Blake.

My elder sister Diane–remember her, Katy?–was married to a man named Rufus who was like a brother to me. He was ravaged with grief by my murder and spent years tracing my murderer. He was a medium, too, and I told him of my killer. The police didn't believe Rufus, so he set out to destroy the Blakes. My sister and I had also been very dear to each other, so she reluctantly joined the quest.

Now, their last name was Perry, but Rufus's father was always called by his last name. So Rufus used the Icelandic method of creating last names, changing his family's last name to Pearson, deriving it from Perry. The name Rufus means "red," so that was what we had always called him. Red Pearson, the murderer of the Blakes, was my brother-in-law. Farley was my nephew.

Katy's trance was broken and she stared at the screen. "It's all starting to make sense," she gasped. Just then, she was dragged back into the trance and Cassandra continued explaining.

_Red and Diane had a daughter, Virginia, in 1942, who also joined their cause. After her parents died, Virginia took the name Redmond to prevent being discovered. She became very rich and popular in California, hosting parties at least once a week._

Let me finish, Cassandra, Nora interrupted. _Your father was the child of Peter and Rochelle Bransby. Peter's sister-in-law, Paula, was a Blake, so your father had a bit of Blake blood in him as well. Your father was quite a successful businessman, Katy. Your parents were invited to a private dinner by Virginia when you were about a year old, where they were poisoned. The Grishams adopted you soon afterward and brought you to Maryland, far from your birthplace. _

The murders have slowed down in the past few decades, mostly because there are only two killers left. Virginia is in prison, but her son, John, is still out there. John Herring. Beware of him, Katy. He has just left California after killing Frances Hastings, my sister.

Be careful, Katy. Although the feud was not our fault, Cassandra and I apologize. We're so sorry, Katy. We never knew each other in life, but Cassia and I are trying to end this feud through mediums like yourself, child.

Snapping out of her trance, Katy stared at the screen, aghast. The family tree swarmed through her head. A feud between one family had bridged into one between two families. Saving the file, Katy pushed her swivel chair back from the desk. That's when she heard the noise. 

It sounded like leaves crackling in a fire. Or like dry leaves being stepped on. The noise came from outside, from the window facing the forest. Katy froze. _That's the broken window._ Only a torn screen and some duct tape protected her from the outside world. She didn't dare turn, not that it would help anyway, as the faint glow of the computer screen was the only light in the room. 

The next sound was like something sharp slitting through vinyl – _or a screen._ Katy slowly, quietly, slid her chair toward the door, her eyes wide with the apprehension gripping her.

There was a softball bat in the closet. Katy gently pulled the closet door open and turned, one degree at a time, toward the contents of it. Just as she reached for the dim shape of the bat, a strong hand clapped around her mouth. Instinct caused her to let out a muffled scream simultaneously.

"One of the final Blake descendants," a deep voice hissed. "Finally, after all these years, the search is ending. I will avenge the death of Cassia."

Katy felt the flat of a cold knife blade of against her neck. _This is it_, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut, _this is where I join Nora and Cassandra._

A little voice, sounding strangely familiar, from the very back corner of Katy's mind told her to fight. She shifted her weight ever so slightly in the chair and pushed the knife away, twisting her attacker's arm, shoving her elbow into her attacker's gut at the same time. Katy grabbed the bat and backed toward the door, ready to strike. 

The attacker, whom Katy knew to be John Herring, was doubled over. She'd elbowed him pretty hard. 

Even through Herring's black ski mask, she could tell he was surprised. "How do you know who I am?" he gasped, trying to regain his breath.

"A little ghost told me. Cassia herself, in fact. And Nora Blake."

Upon the second name, Herring lunged at Katy. Before Katy could even attempt to strike, an opposing forced slammed Herring over the bed and onto the floor with a satisfying thump. The swivel chair rose into the air and fell on him. Two foggy figures floated near the ceiling. Watching in amazement, Katy was off-guard. That was all it took for Herring to jump up at her, the wind knocked out of him and a few ribs broken, and pin her against the wall. The bat slipped from Katy's fingers and hit the floor loudly.

The flat of the knife was at her throat again. "Grandfather always liked guns, but I think a slit throat would hold just the right amount of pain and despair for you," John hissed.

"Please, please," Katy begged, "don't kill me. I'm only fourteen and I'm a medium! Do you know how rare that is? I'm unique! I'm barely a Blake anyway, and I was raised as a Grisham!" Katy babbled on and on, sobbing, being as loud as she could. She was only stalling, it was obvious, but was being loud because of one crucial noise she'd heard in the hallway: a gentle footfall against the wood floor.

The door burst open and Katy pushed Herring away from her in his millisecond of distraction. "Freeze! FBI!" Mulder yelled. Both his and Scully's guns were aimed at Herring. Katy whisked the bat from where she'd dropped it on the floor and pointed it at him like a sword.

"Like you said, Herring, guns were your grandfather's favorite. But I think a metal bat to the skull would suit _you_ right now," Katy threatened.

"So how did you know I was in danger?" Katy inquired. She, Mulder, and Scully sat at the kitchen table after the arrest to John Herring. Police were swarming everywhere, although no murder had been committed. Katy had just finished explaining the long and confusing family trees of both families, and how all the feuds had come into being.

Scully explained, "I read both books. They were wonderful. I heard about Frances Hastings and vaguely remembered her from the book. I also read about the Maryland adoption records being broken into at the state archives. I figured that Frances's killer was looking for you."

"Well, thank you. Thank you very much. You saved my life," Katy replied graciously.

Mulder dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "All in a day's work. Besides," he joked, "you looked like could've handled him. He obviously isn't very professional, if your broke a few of his ribs and knocked the wind out of him twice."

Shrugging, Katy replied, "Batting practice."

Sitting down at her computer, Katy poised her fingers over the keyboard. This would be a difficult letter to write. She'd never been very good at thanking people, and she didn't even know if they'd read it. She had to try. Wiggling her fingers, she began to type.

__

Dear Cassia and Nora,

You don't know how grateful I am to you for all your help…


	7. Two Packages and a Letter

A letter arrived at FBI headquarters a few days later, addressed to Mulder and Scully. Mulder opened it to find a neatly-folded sheet of stationary with a decorative quill pen in the top left corner. "Hey, Scully, Katy wrote us a thank-you note," he said, sitting down. 

Crossing the room, Scully replied, "Well, that was nice of her. A rare occurrence, I'd say."

Smiling, Mulder started to read the letter, Scully reading over his shoulder.

__

Dear Agents Mulder and Scully,

I'd just like to thank you for all your help (and for preventing my death, which is a rather rare thing to write a thank-you note for.)

Cassandra and Nora don't talk to me as much anymore. There's no new haunts in the Grisham home, either. I've started a new book, the story of the feuds and the ghosts…my autobiography, I'd guess you could say. It's got to be the weirdest autobiography ever written.

I have a feeling I was only a medium while the feud continued. Virginia's serving a life sentence, and as far as I know, John Herring will be spending awhile behind bars as well. It's all over with, to the relief of Cassandra and Nora. "There are no outer Blakes anymore," Nora explained, "the feud's all but forgotten."

Again, thank you. I'll send you both copies of the new book once it's finished.

Sincerely,

Katy Bransby

A few months later, two packages arrived at Headquarters. Both Mulder and Scully tore theirs open to find first editions of _Conversations: Communicating with Cassia and Nora,_ by Katy Bransby. Scully turned her book over and read out loud, " 'I also wrote _Cassia _ and _Until the Final Generation. _The pen names were not really pen names; they were the names of two amazing young women whose lives were cut short. These two women, Cassandra Gardner and Lenora Blake (soon to be Lenora Harper at her death,) are ghosts. I am a medium, one who communicate with the dead. Cassia and Nora told me their stories and the amazing story of feuds both between and within their families. This is the story of those feuds, how they ended, and why they chose me to speak to.' Well, I don't think we'll be getting much work done, but it's good to sit down and read a book every once in awhile."

Mulder smiled. "Especially when you know the author. And definitely when the author is a fourteen-year-old medium who doesn't use her nom de plume anymore."

Nodding in agreement, Scully sat down. They both opened their books and began to read.


End file.
